The Last Sip

The but­ter­fly wavered with intri­cate gen­tle­ness, cling­ing with some effort to the edge of her wine glass. She had been about to drain the last of her pinot gri­gio, but now she found it far more refresh­ing to watch this bright­ly col­ored crea­ture attempt to reach the gold­en liq­uid.

Do but­ter­flies real­ly like wine? she won­dered to her­self. Only white, or would they pre­fer red? It was dif­fi­cult, she found, to imag­ine a but­ter­fly sip­ping mer­lot, so she decid­ed that it must be white for them, just as it was for her.

Or maybe she was tak­ing this far too seri­ous­ly, allow­ing a ran­dom detail like this to dis­tract her yet again from the issue at hand. She was going to have to tell him very soon, and the longer she put it off, the greater the risk that he — or more like­ly one of his sis­ters — would notice first. Once he was done with his ini­tial freak-out he was almost cer­tain­ly going to want to know if it was his. And she still hadn’t decid­ed what she want­ed to tell him about that. She doubt­ed the truth would do any good.

Sor­ry, but­ter­fly,” she mur­mured, gen­tly nudg­ing it off the glass and into errat­ic flight. She was going to drink the rest of that wine after all.

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